I like to think my body tells a heck of a tale. If you look closely, you can see scars dating all the way back to when I was a kid. At this point in my life, I can remember where most of themcame from. Maybe someday I won’t be able to and one of my children or grandchildren will drag up this old post and read it to me.
This past weekend we took the kids to Bromley Mountain in VT and spent the day on the Alpine Slide and other adventures. It was a spectacular day, about 85 degrees and the sun was sheer perfection. Amelia and Jack are older now and it is like hanging out with mini-people, not kids.
We got in line, paid for our tickets and headed over to the chairlift. This leads me to a mental scar, not a physical one, that is in my memory…FOREVER.
When I met my husband, I was told that if I wanted to be a part of the family, I had to learn to ski. Really? Did I not tell you I have broken over 14 bones (at that point in my life) doing nothing as bad as skiing. But I loved this man and I said OK. Cutting to the chase….I am on the chairlift with the instructor and she tells me “skooch your butt to the end of the seat so you are ready when we get to the top”. I did and skooched my butt off the chair, into that red netting that is under the exit zone for loser people like me. Yup, had to stop the chair lift to get me out of it. I made it down the mountain, took off the skis and never, ever skied again. Fast forward to Saturday…
I was in a panic every time I had to get off that lift. I have black and blue marks on the back of my legs from that chair hitting me to get on it. That coupled with dragging the slide itself and you should see the roadmap of bruises on my legs. I don’t care, I had a ball!!
That thought led me to the other major scars I have. Some are somewhat humorous like the one on my left index finger. The weekend before my junior prom, I was working at Ponderosa Steakhouse, remember those? I was asked to slice cucumbers for the salad bar and literally ran my index finger into that slicer. Happened so fast I did not feel it until I saw all that blood! I went to the prom with a bandage on my hand. I hid it in the pictures under the bouquet. That was one of the best nights in my life, big honking bandage and all.
I have a scar on my right foot. I slipped on antifreeze in the supermarket. My boyfriend was carrying a jug of antifreeze for my poor old beater Pinto, Betty. He was carrying it and it was leaking as we walked. I wiped out, broke my foot and cut my ankle on the cookie display.
I have scars from trying to get pregnant surgery, pregancy/delivery surgery and hysterectomy; scars from orthopedic surgeries, breast surgery and slamming fingers in car doors. I have wiped out on my bike, in my dorm, in an airport (St. Louis to be exact), on 5th Avenue in NYC and into the arms of a man in Grand Central Station. I would not trade one scar for the story they tell.
My husband tells me his hands look old. I remember the picture the photographer took on our wedding day. We were in the limo and he took that classic picture of our hands with our shiny new wedding bands glistening. I love that picture. I tell him his hands should look older now, time has passed and they too tell a tale. We still hold hands and I still don’t see what he sees. I love to hold hands with him.
We could go on forever. The laugh lines on your face and your eyes: those tell a tremendous story that I will save for another time. I just did Zumba with Dawn and I need to ice my poor knee, riddled with scars from surgery and the major bike wipeout from 1972.
Take a look at your body and spend a few minutes remembering where all those scars came from and know that more are in your future, God willing.